


Stag Night

by FayJay



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-04
Updated: 2009-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 09:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Messrs Padfoot, Moony and Wormtail whisk Prongs off for one last night of drunken debauchery before he seals the knot with his beloved Lily. And in which a moment of unkindness sends Peter Pettigrew off on a course that will lead to betrayal and bloodshed and a small boy being placed in a basket on the Dursleys' doorstep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stag Night

The blindfold is sliding down over his nose and as they hustle him across the grass, familiar fingers clasping his arms and breath puffing warm against the edge of his ear, he can feel the fabric slowly brushing over the fragile skin of his eyelids, and wonders whether he should mention that they didn't tie it tight enough. He isn't entirely sure who did the tying still - probably Peter. James feels terribly exposed without his glasses, even though he knows that Remus will take care of them, and that even if something did happen, he himself could fix them with a word.

He's a long way from being sober now. The pub crawl has taken in pretty much every drinking establishment the marauders have ever frequented, stumbling through fireplaces with beer-slurred words carrying them across space and into another group of outstretched mugs, grinning faces and glittering banners. Everyone in the whole wizarding world seems to know that James Potter and Lily Evans are getting married in the morning.

The safe sounds of Diagon Alley are a thing of the past; now a dull roar of machinery and footsteps and electronic trills fills the air. Muggle London. It must be; they were in The Leaky Cauldron five minutes ago, and now the familiar awkwardness of cobbles underfoot has given way to the disturbing smoothness of modern Muggle pavement. Around him people are speaking in languages he doesn't know.

This will be Peter's idea, he's sure of it, and it makes his belly tighten a little in nervy anticipation. They're stepping off the edge of the map now, venturing into uncharted territory. The fancy dress makes sense after all; they can pass as Muggles in this gear.

Someone smacks his arse; a ringing slap, and that won't be Peter, because Peter is always trying to sneak in touches and they're never as honest as this. Sirius, certainly. Remus wouldn't do such a thing. Sirius is pissed as a fart, and has been moving from risqué to ribald and flirting with anything that moves. James is a little worried that he might find himself left on the outskirts of his own stag night, because Sirius Black evidently wants to get laid, and James has no intention of going wenching the night before he marries Lily.

Hands close over his shoulders, his hips, his arms, and James stumbles to a halt a little too fast, obedient and breathless with uncertain hilarity. They push and pull him and he finds himself being spun around in dizzying circles; serve them right if he pukes all over them, this is no way to treat a man who's been drinking since four o'clock. They're making a scene, surely, horsing around in the middle of the street, but it's his stag night and this is what one does - goes that bit too far, makes a fool of oneself in public and private. The hands feel warm through the strange fabric of his Muggle-cut shirt. A smooth thumb brushes his exposed clavicle and someone else is trailing lazy fingers over his moving denim-clad flesh, sliding against thigh and arse and groin as he is turned around and around and around, and there's nothing stopping him from tumbling down but the hands of his friends. James finds he can't stop smiling, boozy and breathless and utterly certain that they will never let him fall. He loves them all so much it hurts.

 

* * *

 

Soho is like nothing James has ever seen before, the grimy epitome of a boys' night out. Peter freezes outside the first sex shop, presses his nose to the glass and stares and stares at the strange Muggle dummies modelling outrageous underwear: sequinned bras and feathery G-strings, wicked little slivers of lace and transluceny that hide nothing and frame everything. Leather, and something shiny that looks like leather. Silk, or something like it. Extraordinary, unwizardlike clothes that Lily would never - although perhaps - and James finds himself dry mouthed and wondering about their wedding night, because the filthy way she's been giggling with the girls suggests she's got something other than the usual in mind. Lily's half Muggle, after all. Who knows what she's going to be wearing? Behind the dummies are things that look even filthier - mysterious things that look like they should be in a stable, and other things that look like the result of a particularly nasty dismemberment hex. He pushes his newly-returned glasses back up over the bridge of his nose. James can feel the blush rising up from his toes - sex is one thing, but this is all so, this is - he doesn't know what to call it, but Muggles clearly have some very strange ideas.

Sirius's fingers find his, and Peter has his other hand, and Remus has Sirius's other hand, and a moment later they're all stumbling down the street with a wobbly determination to get well and truly up to no good.

The crude pink sign is somehow flashing without magic, promising naked girls. Remus stops and stares at it, and James just knows that what he's doing is wondering how the thing works, rather than how pretty the promised girls will be, and how naked. The club is Sirius's idea, but James follows him in with only the most cursory of qualms about Lily's disapproval. She's certainly expecting them to get up to this kind of thing, and it's traditional, after all. Remus is the last through the doors.

* * *

 

"What's it like, then, being a prostitute?"

The question pulls James's attention away from the remarkable brunette who is grinding and jiggling so fascinatingly just a few feet away from his nose. Remus sounds genuinely interested, and perfectly polite, and that's just so Remus, making conversation with the glossy-mouthed girl who's just perched her dimpled arse on the dusty chair beside him and who's wearing nothing but a pair of knickers smaller than a Muggle postage stamp, and James suddenly can't stop laughing, even though he half suspects that they didn't change enough money in Diagon Alley to pay for these hideous drinks and the entertainment. Surprisingly, the girl doesn't slap Remus, although she does look distinctly taken aback. James glances over at Peter and Sirius, who are both staring in slack-jawed bliss at the pneumatic girls who are wiggling in front of them. He more than half expects a teacher to come storming through a door somewhere and give them all detention, because this feels like one of the most thoroughly scandalous things they've ever done, and it's difficult to believe that they've left school now, and that it's all perfectly legal.

He forgets about Remus when the brunette takes off her knickers.

 

* * *

 

James is washing his hands without soap when Peter stumbles into the gents' and meets his eyes in the flyblown mirror. Peter's face is red with drink, and the Muggle clothes really don't suit him. There's a strange urgency on his face, and for a moment James is afraid that it's trouble, Death Eaters or something worse. He turns, shaking his dripping hands, trying to think clearly through the fog of beer and cocktails, and it's then that Peter lunges forwards, soft belly crushing into him, erection straining against denim and rubbing James's thigh as he pushes James back against the chipped ceramic sink and forces a desperate, clumsy kiss against his half open mouth.

Astonished, James stands quite still, his wet hands clutching empty air and his spine arching back a little under the pressure of Peter's embrace. Peter's mouth is wet, his tongue fast and hot and surprisingly determined, and James's mind is blank, blank, blank. That's Peter's cock, hard and thick and bigger than expected, grinding up against him through their clothes. These are Peter's fingers on his waist and his shoulder, and this is absolutely the last thing that James wants or expected, and he can't think what to do, because although he's always known, sort of, that Peter's idolisation had some of this to it, he's never thought about it very hard, and he's never imagined Peter would ever have the nerve to do something, really do something. An 'accidental' touch, a fraternal hug that lasts a little too long, a nakedly adoring look when James has won another Quidditch match - but nothing like this. He never expected anything like this.

"Love you," breathes Peter, raggedly, his breath hot on James's cheek, his fingers clutching at James's arse hard enough to bruise. James flinches, and shoves him away, belatedly revolted.

"Don't!" Peter's face is stricken. James ought to stop, but he's never been very good at that sort of kindness, and he's terrified that Peter's embrace didn't make his own erection wilt at all. Quite the reverse. He hadn't thought it would feel good. "Fuck off out of it, Wormtail, you dirty - what do you think you're - I'm not like that, and if I was it wouldn't be with some fat little pansy like you."

There is a horrible pause while they stare at each other, seven years of unspoken things threatening to spill into the suddenly silent air, and then Peter blunders out through the door again, his face white and his expression terrible, and James is left alone.

 

* * *

 

Peter is long gone when James ventures out of the gents', and James rather doubts he remembered to ask for his own bill before Apparating. He is shaking as he makes his way back to the table. This was not how things were supposed to turn out.

Remus is still where James left him, but Sirius is now standing next to the stage, watching two girls do extraordinary things to one another and yelling encouraging suggestions. James pauses, momentarily distracted by the writhing flesh, and then he has another flashback to the toilets and he winces.

"Fuck," he mutters grimly, pulling out a chair. Remus is deep in conversation with Tracey now, the two of them leaning on a table; both of them seem to have forgotten that she's practically naked. He glances over at James and one eyebrow lifts a little in polite enquiry. Good old Remus.

"You okay?"

"I think - that is - not especially, no. Peter - he tried to - um." He stands quite still, his fingers tight on the chair back, and thinks about what happened, his exact words. Abruptly it strikes him that Lily, ever his conscience, would probably say he'd acted like a git, and that Remus, being Remus, might even agree with her. And he's still hard as a broom, still unexpectedly aroused by the sensation of another man's body pressed up against his, and all this naked girlflesh certainly isn't helping. He wishes it was tomorrow already. James sits down and his shoulders sag. "I think - I think that Peter's probably gone home," he says at last, trying not to stare at Tracey's breasts. "We had a little - er - a kind of disagreement. About. Stuff." Remus's eyes narrow.

"Oh dear. Oh, he didn't - did he finally - oh dear." Remus reaches across and almost pats his arm, and then thinks better of it. He grimaces, and drums his fingers on the dirty tabletop instead. "I take it you weren't - no, no of course not. Well, you wouldn't be, would you? Especially not tonight. Poor sod."

The coke in James's Rum'n'Coke is flat. He knows this, because Lily likes Coca Cola, and he knows what it should taste like. He swallows anyway, and stares at Remus while he considers these words. "You knew?"

"That Peter's been head over heels in love with you for years? Well - yes. Obviously. I should think even the Head Master knows, James. It's not exactly a well kept secret."

"Oh." He ponders that, and feels rather stupid. "No. No, I suppose it isn't. I don't think I really realised, though. You know. Not really."

"Your fat mate?" pipes up Tracey, who has been following their conversation with interest while she sips from a brightly coloured drink. James forces himself to look at her face. "The one that's just legged it? Oh, totally obvious, love. He kept staring over at you, even when Kelly did that thing with her foot. She's double jointed, is Kelly. Normally gets their attention pretty damn fast."

"Oh," says James, weakly. "Bugger. I didn't expect it, though, and - well. You know I'm not good at tact."

Remus laughs then, although it sounds a little painful. "No. No, you and Sirius both. Not overburdened with delicacy, either of you. Poor Peter." His mouth makes a small, tight line and he glances over James's shoulder at Sirius. "Still - still, it can't be helped, can it? And Peter must have known what to expect." Remus offers him a rather forced smile. "It's - well, you're getting married in the morning, aren't you? I suppose he felt like he had to try." His gaze darts over James's shoulder again, and his smile falters. "Should've known better, though, poor bloke." There's something there, something big and important that James doesn't quite knows he knows, something he can't quite put his finger on - something teetering on the tip of his tongue. Remus glances back at him and pastes the smile back in place. "Have another drink, James."


End file.
